I lost a friend today.
She was a tiny little person who had an enormous impact on me - and I want her to be remembered.
I met Sreyleak on a stinking hot day at Hope for Cambodian Children Orphanage (HfCC) in Battambang, Cambodia. It was my second day as a volunteer, which meant I was basically walking around, trying to work out how to join the furious current of daily life here - and make myself useful.
Luckily, day two fell on Khmer New Year and I was able to sit back and watch the festivities, while kids of varying sizes (and hygiene levels) treated my sweaty limbs like a jungle-gym. One of the house mothers approached and sat down, carrying what I thought was an infant in her arms. As I looked closer I discovered that she held a small child, with a body that was rigid with cerebral palsy, writhing with discomfort in the heat. The little girls face contorted as she struggled for breath and as her jaw clenched, I saw broken baby teeth.
I watched my friend, an osteo, perform an impromptu examination of her and struggle to swallow his emotions. It nearly broke my heart and I left that evening feeling useless. What could I possibly to do? (You see, at this stage I was still naively thinking about how I felt, what I could do, how I would contribute - the usual echoes of modern-day narcissism).
The next day I watched as my friend assessed the four special needs children, Sreyleak the little girl included. Again, the scene was heart wrenching and I walked outside feeling totally pathetic. How arrogant was I - thinking I could come and a make a difference with nothing more than good intentions?
I was about to give myself good kick-in-the-butt when I heard Sreyleak crying inside. I gritted my teeth and headed back in. Her temperature was 39.5 degrees and she was struggling, sweating and shaking her tiny fists. I felt like she was pleading at me to do something. Instinct said get her to hospital, but the HfCC nurse was insistent Sreyleak would improve with a dose of paracetamol (as she had done on countless occasions - apparently). So after a protracted hand-signal conversation, and a promise that a doctor would be called if she worsened, we trudged home.
I slept little that night, preoccupied with how Sreyleak was faring. I knew she was much stronger than she looked - after all she'd survived worse. But how much can one little body take? How much should it have to?? (As a baby Sreyleak had suffered severe lung damage from Tuberculosis, and her parents simply left her alone on a roadside. To die, to be found... we'll never know. Thankfully she was discovered by a kind soul who brought her to HfCC).
By morning Sreyleak's fever had broken and it was crisis averted - again. But she had made an impression on me I will never forget. So I plucked up the courage to hold her.
I was hooked. I cuddled and soothed and sung songs to that girl for hours, just trying to pour as much love as I possibly could into her every day for six weeks. It’s the first time I've felt something close to what parents must feel for their children - that I would do anything, absolutely anything to protect her from another minute of suffering.
Hanging out with Sreyleak when she was in a happy mood was something else. I rocked her back and forth on an exercise ball, gently exercising her little limbs as instructed by my friend - who had devised an exercise and eating program to aid the development of Sreyleak and the other disabled kids. Seeing her face, arms and legs relax as I rocked the ball back and forth making funny faces was priceless. She'd look at me like I was crazy, but then crack a face-splitting grin.
I also discovered that Sreyleak loved music - firstly from singing to her and then by bringing my iPod to our exercise sessions. She started relaxing so completely on the ball that she slept soundly on it, and on many occasions my friend found me cramped awkwardly on the tiles, while Sreyleak lay fast asleep beside me. Other times I would pump Cher's Greatest Hits at full volume and spin around the bungalow while she squealed (happily, I think).
The day I left HfCC was the hardest day of my life. Saying goodbye to the kids and our new friends was gut-wrenching. But giving Sreyleak that last hug broke my heart. I wanted to believe I would see her again, but knew that poor tormented body probably wasn't long for this life.
When I returned to Oz I resolved to do whatever I could to help Sreyleak and the disabled kids, and with support from family and friends, we raised enough money for a full-time disabled care nurse at HfCC. Someone to continue with the program's we had put in place and to measure their development. But most importantly - to spend quality time with them.
Over past 10 months we had learned that Sreyleak, and the three others, had put on weight and made huge developments in terms of their alertness, strength and ability to interact with the other kids. However it was an email from the HfCC chairwoman in January which delivered the most positive news to date - Sreyleak was the happiest Jenny had ever seen her, and a far cry from the sickly child she remembered from a visit 12 months earlier. So we had done it - we made a difference. And not for ourselves - for her.
Knowing that Sreyleak is no longer suffering is a comfort, but it's bittersweet. She opened my eyes and my heart in a way that I never thought possible - and selfishly I had hoped to see her again. But I'm certain she is now in a place that's far better place than anything the world could offer. Happy, giggling and - with any luck - dancing to "If I could turn back time" at full blast.
RIP beautiful girl xoxoxo
